


Prairie Rose

by kateyboosh



Category: The Mighty Boosh (TV), The Mighty Boosh RPF
Genre: ?????, Alternate Universe, Bryan Ferry is Julian but also Bryan Ferry, Crack, Enjoy!, Gratuitous use of Roxy Music lyrics, Hey Hey, I don't know what it is tbh, I wrote it for myself but you can read it if you want, Least of all me, NO ONE KNOWS, Noel is Jerry Hall but also Noel, Other, Self indulgent fix it, probably, this is normal, why not
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-14
Updated: 2020-12-14
Packaged: 2021-03-10 07:27:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27966809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kateyboosh/pseuds/kateyboosh
Summary: Bryan Ferry, Lord of the Forest and suave glam rock crooner, returns home to the Forest of Death. He's visited in his glade by the most beautiful creature he's ever seen. He can only respond in song format.In which Bryan Ferry is Bryan Ferry, played by Julian, and Jerry Hall is Noel, but also Jerry Hall, but strongly, strongly Noel.
Relationships: Bryan Ferry/Other
Comments: 8
Kudos: 6
Collections: Trash Triplets Crackmas 2020: It's All About Range





	Prairie Rose

**Author's Note:**

> I really thought the real life, non-blue-taped-facial-hair Bryan Ferry wrote Prairie Rose for Jerry Hall (come on, all those references to Texas?). Alas, they wouldn’t meet until 1975 and he wrote it a year earlier in ‘74. Here’s my weird, self-indulgent Boosh crack fix-it fic!

Bryan Ferry tidies himself in the middle of his forest kingdom.

First, he straightens his crisp bowtie. Then, he runs his large, fine hands down his pure white dinner jacket to banish the wrinkles accumulated from hours of travel, having returned home to the Forest of Death after the conclusion of his last successful glam/art rock tour. He brushes his lapels and sticks the corner of his suave blue moustache back down where it’s come unstuck. Finally, he adjusts his chin.

Ferry knows better than anyone that one must stay chic, debonair and refined in every setting, especially when air travel is involved. 

Never let it be said that Bryan Ferry did not dress for a plane, and never let it be said that Bryan Ferry did not dress for a glade.

He shakes his head after completing his toilette. The forest is in a state. It has turned into a mess without him these months. There are vines out of place and _leaves_ have fallen on the forest floor.

Ferry loves country life, but this is ridiculous.

He reaches for his trusty hoover and swivels his hips as it springs to life like a sleek, sexy panther, like his prized Corvette, jiving as he tidies his abode. He dips and sways around the cord, locked in a sensual cleaning dance as erotic as his movements onstage. 

Sultry tidying has always been his favorite way of perfecting his stage persona; he’s spent hours with his eyes locked half-lidded on a feather duster, weeks fluttering his hands just right as he polished twigs and branches.

True, it’s lonely in the forest, being a suave crooner who hasn’t seen a model or an actress or an heiress in at least six hours since returning home from tour. The woes of the world are truly upon his immaculate shoulders, Bryan thinks, sweeping a few dashing strands of his coiffed hair back from his forehead.

It is a weight upon him, having to select a cover model for all of his future musical releases, balancing his duties as Lord of the Forest while also being the sleekest, chic-est vocalist of the year. He really should look into what all of his adopted children have been doing.

 _Oh_ , he laments, snapping the hoover off to fully appreciate his timbre, the pause of his crooning voice vibratoing through the leaves until they're aflutter like the quaking females in the front row of his last gig, _mother of pearl, I wouldn't trade you for another girl._

Bryan reaches for his feather duster, to twinkle along the shoulders of his finest dinner jackets hung upon a vine. Before he can lock eyes with it and create another “are they half-lidded or are his eyes just really tiny?” debate in the popular music press, he sees her.

He sees her catwalking through the forest.

Him? Her.

Him?

Her.

Her? _Him?_

Whatever.

She’s clearly from south London. No, south Texas. As clearly as he is from the northeast of England. No, northwest. No, directions do not matter, because look! Look upon her flowing golden locks, a river of-

No, wait, she sports a choppy shag cut, a tapestry of blonde, black, brunette-

No, Ferry, you idiot, long luscious locks like beaten gold! Like her smooth, sculpted, hairless legs and arms, bronzed by the kiss of the sun! But also pale, hairy, and thickly muscled-?

Bryan blinks his brown eyes. No, no, no. He blinks his blue eyes.

He blinks his eyes of some type of color.

It matters not, because before him is the most beautiful creature he's ever seen enter a forest, himself included.

She… he… must be 175 centimeters tall, five feet nine inches of glorious perfection.

No, wait. Closer to 178 centimeters, five feet ten inches of pure, striking beauty.

No, certainly not. She… he… is 180.34 centimeters exactly, five feet, eleven inches of incredible height.

Bryan blinks.

Truly, at this juncture, height is… insignificant, as this legendary beauty is wearing heels and therefore, it cannot be correctly determined.

Regardless, she is telling a cockatoo in a bashful south London accent that she “doesn’t mind a feelup.”

To a peacock, she purrs, then invites it to dress her up “like a dolly,” to make her hair into “funny shapes.”

Next, she struts and twirls and leans in confidentially to a lemur. Bryan feels a frisson of energy rolling through him as he overhears her drawled philosophy of being “a maid in the living room, a cook in the kitchen, and a whore in the bedroom. And honey, I can hire a cook and a maid.”

Bryan gulps. He adjusts the drape of his jacket. This being, this magical, glorious being, would look simply stunning draped in ringlets of seaweed by a mystical body of water, like a siren, like some underwater creature.

Bryan snaps his hips and his fingers to refocus himself as she… he… nears with a cock to her hip and a wobble in her heels.

She is truly a cockney flower!

 _No, you buffoon_ , he chides himself. She is a… a… _a prairie rose_!

That’s it!

He is struck!

Struck through the head and the heart (and the groin) with the greatest of inspirations!

Bryan magics a pen from his smooth sleeves and plucks a dainty leaf from the nearest tree as words begin to flow.

Texas… lonesome stars shining on… open skies that tantalize… fancy rhymes and composing in plain prose....

Yes! Yes, he has it! The perfect closer to the next album!

He finds himself crooning to the middle distance, hands in the air and hips swiveling instead of writing the words down. He curses his suave air, his gentleman’s spirit, his man of action qualities. He inscribes the opening word on the leaf and plucks another, then another, then another, the words flowing out of him and reordering to form a song as she twirls around his clearing.

Bryan curses the tiny size of the leaves on the trees of the Forest of Death; he needs three for each “hey, hey” alone, but he writes like the flashes of quicksilver flickering from her jumpsuit, like the slashes of tiger print from her dress. She swishes her frilly satin wrap, twirling and sparkling and slipping the straps of her cape through her fingers as she stalks, every perfect angle and movement of her face shooting sparks of inspiration into Bryan's blue blooded… brain.

He sinks to the forest floor. “I’m not sure I can explain your strange allure,” he pleads as she teases, tempts, moves closer and then draws back, hands on her… his hips, in his… her hair.

At once, she grins, her lips pursed as she laughs and sprints out of the clearing.

His jacket rumpled, a cascade of leaves flowing behind him, Bryan realizes he’d better leave right away. He leaps after her like a powerful springing impala through the forests, trilling his voice in a “hey, hey” and fluttering his eyelashes all the way.

It's true love.

And then she eventually dumps him for Jagger.

Or does she?

She does.

But does she really?

Yes, she does.

Truly?

Yes.

But does it actually happen?

They go to Morocco together, they get married and have four children, so yes. It does.

Are you sure? Really, really sure?

Uh huh.

But-

It happens. And fear not, Ferry marries his son's girlfriend in the end.

**Author's Note:**

> Jerry really did dump Bryan Ferry for Jagger in real life, which just made me really want to write this weird fic with her as part Noel, because come on, man.
> 
> Ferry really did end up marrying one of his son’s ex-girlfriends in real life. Come on, man, said for very different reasons.
> 
> Check out the Siren album cover and tell me you don’t get gorgeous Old Gregg vibes, then spot all the lines to Prairie Rose that I ripped off for this fic and win a prize! (My undying admiration.)
> 
> Jerry really said that amusing “maid/cook” quote and if you’ve read this far, you know Noel said the things he said.
> 
> I pictured Julian as Bryan Ferry in his suavest white dinner jacket from Hitcher… I mean, the Mother of Pearl video. Jerry/Noel wore getups from Let’s Stick Together and The Price of Love (that berry satin… thing was a real look), and the mirrorball suit, and starsonthebrow’s favorite cape.
> 
> And all of those height and birthplace references are legit.


End file.
